by Jason Starr
I was craving a drink. I used to think that alcohol relaxed me—what alcoholic didn’t believe that? The reality that when I was drunk I was a belligerent asshole never occurred to me when I wanted a jolt of liquor. I did my deep breathing, my creative visualization, and settled on the couch. Within a few minutes I actually felt relaxed, and I didn’t have to go off the wagon to get there.
I was actually glad that Maria had gone into the bathroom. Today had been an extremely stressful day for both of us. It would be much better to have a discussion about our marriage tomorrow, when we were calmer and less emotional.
When she came out, I noticed she had her cell with her, which got me paranoid—had she been texting her cousin Michael in there? Wisely, I didn’t say anything, though. She went into the bedroom and shut the door. Rather than joining her, I decided that it would be best to spend the night on the pullout.
I turned on the TV—Jimmy Kimmel interviewing Justin Timberlake. I hated how happy they both seemed. It was hard to focus and, after a little while longer, I zapped the TV and killed the lights.
The apartment was dark except for some faint orange lamppost light from outside. Lying there, staring at the ceiling, my mind churned. I was ruminating about Sophie’s bulging eyes, my nonexistent marriage, and the questioning from Barasco—pleasant stuff like that. I needed to lawyer up in a big way, but how was I supposed to start hiring lawyers? I didn’t want to burn through thousands of dollars, and Maria and I had a joint bank account, so if I hired a divorce lawyer she’d find out about it. The last thing I wanted to do right now was give her a reason to have even more animosity toward me.
Then I started sobbing. I’d been so distracted by the police investigation and the drama at home that I hadn’t a chance to mourn for Sophie. I barely knew her—had it really been just a week? ten days?—but I’d somehow become attached to her. I felt like I’d lost a relative, or a best friend.
Thinking about everything I’d done to fuck up my life, I continued to cry until I eventually passed out.
* * *
“Daddy, are you up yet? Daddy?”
I opened my eyes and saw my favorite sight in the world—Jonah’s smiling face.
I kissed him on the forehead, feeling in that moment like the luckiest guy in Manhattan, then said, “I’m up now, kiddo.”
“Did you sleep here all night?” he asked with amazement. Ah, to be eight years old. I wished I could be so easily impressed.
“Yeah, I did,” I said.
“How come you didn’t sleep with Mommy?”
Wanting to change the subject, I said, “Why are you up so early?” I glanced at the clock on the cable box. “It’s not even eight o’clock yet.”
“I don’t know,” he said. Then, as if he’d suddenly gotten the greatest idea in the world, he said, “You want to play NBA 2K?”
You gotta love kids’ energy.
“Now?” I said. “Can’t I have my coffee first?”
“Pleeease,” he said in the manipulative, impossible-to-say-no-to tone all kids master. “We haven’t played in sooo long. Pleeease.”
“Okay,” I caved.
“Yay,” he said. “Just three games.”
“Three games?” I said.
“Okay, two games.”
“One game,” I said.
“Three games,” he said.
“Two games,” I said.
“Deal,” he said.
I laughed. The kid was a natural negotiator; I just hoped he didn’t go into the real estate business.
As he was loading the game, it hit me that today was Sunday—Sunday. Holy shit, I had two open houses this morning and I was completely unprepared.
I grabbed my phone and emailed and texted reminders to potential buyers. I could think of four possibilities for the one-bedroom on 74th near York, and a few for the studio on 89th between 3rd and Lex, but I knew I was forgetting some people. The good work energy I’d had over the past several days was gone, and I was flustered, and had reverted to feeling off my game. I only had about fifteen minutes to get to the first showing.
“We’ll have to play later,” I said to Jonah.
I started putting on the clothes I’d worn yesterday and had left in a pile on a chair.
“Daaad.”
He was trying to play the guilt card. On another day that might’ve worked.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I promise, when I get back later, I’ll play three games with you, okay?”
“But you promised you’d play now.”
“I can’t now,” I said, raising my voice, though I didn’t want to.
He threw the Xbox remote down on the rug, so hard it bounced.
“Hey!” I shouted.
He rushed away into his room.
“Come on,” I said.
Maria came from the bedroom, eyes widened, already enraged, looking for a fight.
“Why are you yelling at Jonah?”
“He threw the Xbox remote, and I didn’t yell. I just raised my voice.”
“Are you completely losing it?” she asked. “Can’t you control yourself at all anymore?”
She was doing it to me again—twisting everything, making me into the one with anger issues.
“Okay, let’s just drop it,” I said.
“Oh, I’ll drop it all right.” She had a weird, sarcastic grin. “That’s exactly what I intend to do.”
Was she implying divorce again? In a rush, I didn’t feel like trying to unravel one of her cryptic threats.
“Fine, whatever,” I said, just to end it.
She returned to the bedroom.
I finished getting dressed, put on my shoes, and left the apartment. Getting away for a while would be the best thing—if Maria and I had spent the morning around each other’s stress, a meaningful discussion would have been impossible.
* * *
When I arrived at the building on 74th Street, I saw a tense young couple waiting in the lobby. The anxious-looking woman was holding pages from the real estate section of the Times.
“Sorry, had a closing downtown,” I said, wanting to give off the vibe that I was a successful real estate agent, out wheeling and dealing bright and early on a Sunday morning.
I rode with the couple—Dan and Jen—in the elevator, giving them the usual spiel about the general amenities in the building—a roof deck, a bike room, a laundry room—and how it’s “new on the market,” although it had actually been on the market for three months.
“Really?” Jen asked. “I thought I saw it listed a couple of weeks ago, but we were away and couldn’t see it.”
Damn, busted already.
“Oh sorry,” I said. “I meant fairly new. But hardly anybody has seen it yet.”
They didn’t seem convinced. Already I felt desperate.
In the apartment, I did my best to stay upbeat, boasting about how spacious the place was and how there was a possibility of creating a second bedroom by putting up a wall in the living room.
“We’re going to need that,” Jen said. “I’m expecting.”
“Wow, congratulations,” I said. I was surprised because she wasn’t showing.
“It’s still five months away,” she said, “but we’ll definitely need that second bedroom.”
I thought I had an in. I mentioned that I was a dad myself and that my son went to school on the Upper East Side. This created a great bond between us as I answered all of their questions about the school and the playgrounds in the area. Then I went into my spiel about how the building was very accommodating regarding putting up walls and how the apartment was ideal for it because the alcove they would section off had its own window and heating/air-conditioning unit. They seemed to really like the apartment, too—they were discussing where they would put their furniture, and how to decorate the apartment, which was always a positive sign. Dan had a few questions about the building’s financials and seemed satisfied with my answers. I was confident that the discussion would segue into how they could go
about making an offer and was already thinking about my commission on the deal—maybe ten thou after the agency’s cut—when Dan went to check out the bathroom again and called Jen in to discuss something.
They remained in there for a couple of minutes, conferencing in a hushed tone, and I started to get paranoid, fearing they were having second thoughts.
When they finally returned, I said, “Do you want to go and take a look at the bike room in the basement? I don’t know if you guys ride, but it’s a great space down there.”
“It’s okay,” Dan said. “Do you have a card?”
Sensing the blow-off, I gave him my business card. Obviously something had soured them.
“So what do you think?” I asked, trying to revive the upbeat vibe.
“We’re concerned about the size of the bathroom,” Jen said. “Especially with the baby coming and all.”
“Oh,” I said. “It’s actually an above-average-size bathroom for a one-bedroom.”
“It’s smaller than our bathroom in the studio we live in right now and with a baby it’ll be impossible. And we won’t be able to give the baby baths with that old shower door.”
Dan was near the front door, texting, obviously ready to leave.
I knew I’d lost them on this apartment, but I tried, “Actually, if you take down the shower doors and put up a curtain, it’ll make the whole bathroom look more spacious.”
“Thank you, we’ll think about it,” Jen said.
I knew this meant no.
“I have some other listings, a few great apartments right here in this neighborhood,” I said. “If you have some time later this afternoon, I’d be happy to show them to you.”
Actually I didn’t have any other apartments in particular in mind, but I could come up with some possibilities. It didn’t matter because Dan was already in the hallway, calling for the elevator. I’d done something to sour him, probably come off as pushy and desperate,
“We have a few other appointments later,” Jen said. “But if you could text me the links to those places, that would be great.”
They left and I sensed I’d never hear from them again.
Exuding positive energy was so important in selling real estate, and becoming a murder suspect hadn’t improved the situation. While an upbeat attitude wouldn’t have expanded the bathroom or closed the sale, I certainly wasn’t helping myself.
The rest of the open house was pretty much a bust. I hung out at the apartment for two hours as nine people drifted in. No one showed serious interest and most were “professional open house goers,” whom I recognized from previous open houses. They went to open houses every Sunday, claiming they were serious buyers, but they were really just lookers. I had no idea what people got out of spending their free time going to open houses, but addictions came in many forms.
At a little before noon, I walked uptown to the other open house on 89th. This showing had a better turnout and generated a few leads, but I still felt like I was off my game. I wasn’t myself—I was an actor playing Jack Harper and was watching this make-believe Jack Harper hide his fear and desperation, trying his best to come off as relaxed and confident, and failing miserably.
It had been cloudy earlier, but had turned into a sunny, chilly day, dried leaves swirling on the sidewalk like a mini tornado. I checked my phone, hoping there was news about the arrest of Lawrence Ward. I had a flashback to discovering Sophie’s body, the red tie around her neck, and, in front of a Mexican restaurant, people having Sunday brunch, I began sobbing. As the tears gushed, all I could think about was how connected I’d felt to her, how happy she’d made me feel. Now she was gone forever, and maybe those happy feelings were gone forever, too.
Distracted by my desperation to sell an apartment, and sadness about Sophie, I’d forgotten to eat. Morbidly, I realized that with Sophie gone, I had no reason to get into shape anymore, so I stopped at the Shake Shack on 86th Street. I ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate shake. The woman took my order, and then I scanned my Chase banking card.
“Sorry, that card didn’t go through,” she said. “Got another one?”
“What?” I said, acting surprised to hide my shame, the way everyone did after a card was rejected. “That’s impossible. I just used that card.”
This wasn’t true, I quickly realized. I actually hadn’t used the card since yesterday.
“It doesn’t work,” the woman said. “Got another one or not?”
There was a long line, about twenty people, behind me.
From my wallet, I took out a Visa card and swiped it.
“Nope,” the woman said.
“What the hell?” I said. “You sure something isn’t wrong with your machine?”
“The machine’s fine.”
I tried my AmEx and it got rejected as well.
“This is ridiculous,” I said.
“People are waiting, sir.”
I got off the line and went outside. I could understand one card not working, but three? I already had an idea what was going on, but I didn’t want to believe it was true.
I called Chase, got through to the fraud department.
“Hey,” I said to the man who’d answered, “I think there may be a problem with my account.”
I gave him my information, and then he said, “You currently have a zero balance.”
My first thought: Detective Barasco was behind this. But that didn’t make sense.
Then I thought: Maria.
That made more sense, but would she actually shut me out of the accounts?
When I approached my apartment and saw the news trucks and swarm of reporters, I knew “the best” was still far, far away.
There were maybe ten reporters and when they saw me approaching, they rushed toward me, shouting questions about Sophie. It was too overwhelming to process all of it, but I picked up words here and there—“person of interest,” “murder,” “suspect.”
“Excuse me, I have to get by,” I said. “Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me.”
Finally, I made it into the lobby, but a couple of reporters were still trailing me.
One, a blond guy, said, “Mr. Harper, when did you meet Sophie Ward?”
The other reporter, a dark-haired woman, said, “How long were you two shacking up?”
I turned and shouted at them, “I’m not answering any questions so just leave me the fuck alone, okay?!”
My voice had boomed, louder than I’d intended. I realized I sounded, well, crazy.
After a pause, the woman asked, “Do you have anger management issues, Mr. Harper?”
Shaking my head, muttering to myself, I went toward the elevators when Robert, the doorman, cut me off. “Sorry, man,” he said. “I’m not supposed to let you up there.”
“What?” I said. “What’re you talking about?”
“The locksmith came by before, changed your locks.”
“What?” I waited a beat. “Are you serious?”
“I thought it was weird, I mean, on a Sunday morning and all, so I checked with your wife. She said I can’t let you up there anymore.”
“That’s crazy,” I said. “It’s my apartment.”
“She said the lease is in her name, which my boss said is true, so I don’t know what to tell you, man. Maybe you can call her, I dunno, try to work it out.”
“You can’t stop me from going up there.”
“Don’t make me call the cops, man,” Robert said. “I’m just looking to have an easy, quiet Sunday morning. I don’t want trouble.”
The reporters had been eavesdropping and were busy scribbling notes.
“Hey, both of you, go away,” I said, as if directing a couple of over-eager dogs. “I said, away!”
I went over toward the mailbox area for a little privacy and called the apartment. The call went right to voice mail. I tried Maria’s cell—also voice mail—but this time I left a message.
“Look, I don’t know what’s going on here,” I said, “but this isn�
��t the way to handle this. We have a kid, you have to be mature, and I didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t know what you think happened, but I didn’t fuck that woman—” I saw the reporters eavesdropping again and I said, “Go away. Now.” The reporters moved back into the main part of the lobby. Then back into the phone I said, “Call me back.”
I ended the call and texted her: Left you VM Please, we need to talk.
I waited, staring at the phone, but she wasn’t texting back.
I texted: You can’t keep me away from Jonah This is wrong You can’t do this!
After a couple of minutes, she still didn’t respond, and I said, “Fuck this,” and I got on an elevator.
Robert, who was with the reporters by his desk, saw me and rushed over and said, “Hey, yo, you can’t do that,” as the doors shut.
On the twelfth floor, I went to our apartment, saw a new lock so didn’t even bother with my key. I pushed the bell a few times and banged on the door a couple of times.
“Come on, Maria, open up! Can you just open up?” I banged again. “Please, I just want to talk to you, okay? I’m not mad. I just want to have a mature conversation, okay?”
I heard Jonah: “Why won’t you let Daddy in?”
I couldn’t make out Maria’s response.
“Maria, dammit,” I said. “Open the door—open the fucking door right now.”
I knew I was losing control. Not being allowed to talk to my son, hearing how frightened he was, had pushed me too far.
Leading with my shoulder, I rammed the door. In the movies it looked so easy to break down a door; in real life, it seemed impossible. The door was fine, but my shoulder was bruised. This didn’t stop me from trying again, though … and again. I don’t know how many times I tried, or what exactly I was screaming, or how much time went by. At some point neighbors came out of their apartments, including Linda, an older woman who lived next door. She was trying to calm me down, get me to stop, but when I get focused on something, I get carried away, and nothing can make me stop.
“Hey, calm down! I said calm down!”
Well, nothing except maybe an NYPD cop. There were two cops actually—the bigger one cuffed me.
Only when the cops were pushing me along the hallway, and I saw Linda’s cowering expression and noticed how she was backing away into her apartment as I approached, did reality kick back in, and I knew what a huge mistake I’d just made.
